


Morbidezza

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Romance, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She hasn't had a second for the little things. For the normal and not-so-normal bumps in the road. Like the fact that he's a millionaire writer and he wants to take her out. He really wants it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just a fluffy two-shot, set sometime between "Cloudy with a Chance of Murder" (5 x 02) and "Secret's Safe With Me" (5 x 03). I know a number of writers have done lovely things with the idea of "untranslatable" words, and I always find those stories lovely and, obviously, inspiring.

 

 

 

Morbidezza.

Mor`bi`dez´za

n. 1. (Fine Arts) Delicacy or softness in the representation of flesh.

2\. (Mus.) A term used as a direction in execution, signifying, with extreme delicacy.

 

* * *

 

"I want to take you out."

He says it from somewhere halfway down her ribcage. His eyes are closed and his cheek is pressed to her side. His hands are wandering. Up her sternum. From collarbone to collarbone and down again. His hands are _always_ wandering.

"You just did." She skips her fingers down the slope of his nose to pat her own stomach, as though it rounds out like a cartoon character's. It might at that. "Mmmmm. Food truck."

He turns his lips to her skin and blows a raspberry. "There's a time and a place for food truck food. I want to take you _out."_

She feels a flutter of nerves. This is new. It's all _so_ new and everything's been out of the ordinary. The storm and her suspension. Bracken and waiting and waiting and waiting for the bottom to drop out of that. They've been clinging tight to every moment. Making up for time wasted and snatching greedily for all the tomorrows they're both afraid will be cut short somehow.

She hasn't had a second for the little things. For the normal and not-so-normal bumps in the road. Like the fact that he's a millionaire writer and he wants to take her out. He _really_ wants it.

"Candles and perfume." He works his way up her body with pinpoint kisses while his hands glide down and down. "Cufflinks and fancy hair . . ."

"Yours or mine." She means it to bite a little. She wants to walk him back from this particular edge. But her breath catches. It spoils the effect entirely.

He hears it. Of course he hears it, and she'd lick the smirk right off his face if she could move at all. "My hair is always fancy. But you clean up ok." He works his way down the curve of her neck with delicate teeth, like he's thinking about necklines. "Will you?"

He's roughing a well-past-five-o'clock cheek over the crest of her shoulder. It takes her long enough to realize it's a question that he's sing-songing her name and flickering his fingertips over the spot on her hip that drives her mad. "Ka-ate . . . will you?"

"We _can't!_ " It bursts out of her, loud and surprising enough that his head pops up. She seizes the moment and squirms away. She arms herself with a pillow and tries to catch her breath. "The precinct. Remember? We can't just 'go out'."

"We'll go _away_!" Her resistance only seems to feed the fire. He tugs the pillow away from her. He casts it aside and wriggles up on his knees. He comes after her. "Barcelona or Venice or Casablanca. There and back. Just for dinner."

"Because _that_ won't call attention." She scoots back and back, but she's running out of bed fast. "Mister page six."

She mutters it over her shoulder. She's looking for a move to make and doesn't mean anything by it. She doesn't mean _much_ by it, even if it is another run-of-the-mill flutter they haven't gotten around to yet. It knocks the wind from his sails, though. He flips away from her and sags against the headboard.

"Page six. Yeah." He's morose, just like that. He roots behind his back and pulls out another pillow entirely. He hugs it to his chest. "Sorry."

She comes after him, this time. She plants her palms and slides them up his thighs. She noses the pillow out of the way and scales distance from his chest to his jaw. "Don't have to be sorry." She smiles and kisses him lightly. "Just careful."

He smiles back, quick enough that she wonders if it was another maneuver or he really just shakes things off that easily. He kisses her, and there's something a little wistful in it, though. Something that makes her think that apology and the rueful look are real enough.

"Akron," he whispers. "I could take you out on the town in Akron."

"What?" she laughs. She shivers at his voice rumbling in her ear. "You're not huge in Akron, Castle?"

The move is fast enough to wound her professional pride. He has her on her back. He yanks her legs so she's diagonal on the bed.

"You should know by now, Detective." He rolls his body entirely on top of hers. "I'm huge everywhere."

 

* * *

 

He doesn't let it go. He brings it up all the time. He doesn't play fair. At all.

He sneaks up behind her in the bathroom mirror and gathers her hair in a twist, low and just behind her ear. "Good look," he says and opens his mouth against her spine. "For when I take you out."

He's nosy as hell, and somehow that surprises her. It surprises her all over again. She slams lids, practically on his fingers. She closes drawers with a pointed bump of her hip. She's nearly slammed his nose in more than one door, but he's undaunted.

He wanders while she gets ready in the mornings. Whether they've spent the night at her place or it's an early detour, he roams. He picks things up and puts them down again. Almost, but not quite, in the exact same spot. He smiles when she traces his steps, turning things a few degrees this way or that. Shooing them back from the edge.

He rifles through her jewelry box and holds earrings up beside his face. "Not these." He wrinkles his nose at a drop wire that ends in chunky, irregular jade. "Do I have to buy you jewelry for our big date?"

"You don't have to buy me anything, Castle." She snatches the earring from him. To be honest, it's a holdover from her Stanford days. Something she can hardly believe was ever her, but it rubs her the wrong way. It makes her defensive. "There's no big date."

"Hey, I was . . ." He moves to rest his hands on her shoulders, but she spins and blocks him.

She strides past him and dives head first into the wardrobe, half embarrassed, half angry for no good reason. He doesn't follow.

"That was rude. I'm sorry." He's formal all of a sudden. He's careful. Hands in his pockets when she turns to face him again, like it might keep him out of trouble.

"No, I'm . . ." She goes to him without words. She runs into him fast enough that she has to worm her hands between his arms and his body. "I don't even . . . I didn't mean to snap."

"And I didn't mean to . . ." He thinks about it. "Spelunk." She draws back and gives him a look. "Snap. Spelunk. I like alliteration."

"Alliteration." She rolls her eyes and pushes him away with a kiss.

She goes back to getting ready. He goes back to rooting around and somehow it's heartening, not annoying. Push and push back that makes it feel like an everyday victory.

"They're pretty," he says.

"They're awful," she mutters as she flicks aside another three or four shirts she's deadly tired of.

"No, really." She shoots him a look over her shoulder, but he's peering down into the jewelry box from high up. Considering them from afar. "They're a little more my mother than you. But pretty."

"Castle?" Her voice is sharp enough to bring his head whipping around. "How about we _don't_ bring your mother into the bedroom."

"Good point. Morning-after trauma was bad enough." He drops the lid of the jewelry box abruptly. He turns to her, looking stricken. "She loaned you jewelry."

"Martha?" She thinks about it. The memory of that gorgeous dress rises up and her hands fall to her hips like she might feel it there. The whisper of perfect-fitting satin. It brings a blush to her cheeks. "She did. Those beautiful garnets."

"That settles it." He folds his arms and leans against the dresser. "My mother is not invited when I take you out. I'm just going to have to buy you something."

 

* * *

He brings her breakfast in bed. It's not unusual—not beyond him being up before she is, anyway—but she knows something is up from the start. He wakes her with a kiss. It's quiet enough, and he barely breathes her name over her cheek, but she knows something's up.

He's practically vibrating with excitement. He sits on the edge of the bed and jogs his knee. His fingers twist the edge of the sheets. She's slow about waking. Slow about everything, mostly to get his goat, but partly to give herself time. He's excited, and too often that's a warning sign. A flutter to get past or something they actually do need to have out.

For now, it's mostly to get his goat, though. She yawns dramatically and pushes herself up on her fists. She lounges against the head board and takes her coffee in delicate sips.

"Mmmmm. Thanks, Castle," she murmurs sleepily, playing it up.

"There's food," he says. "Crepes. And fruit. Well. Compote. But I know it's not food to you without sufficient sugar. And it was fruit once."

She glares at him over the rim of her mug and takes up her fork. She spreads out the paper so it hides the edge of the plate. There's something sticking out from under it—a huge, bright cardboard sleeve like you never see any more—but she pretends not to notice.

"Hot again." She takes a bite of crepe, then another. It's phenomenal and it takes most of her concentration not to moan. She flips the page and folds it back with infinite care.

"Rain on the weekend." He's trying for casual, but his voice is tight. "But the heat's not going to break. Gonna be gross."

"Bummer." She scans the horoscopes, then snaps the paper out full-size to hide the grin she can't quite hold back. "I have the weekend off."

"Very funny, Beckett." He slaps at the paper with the back of his hand. She folds it half down and peers down her nose. "I know you see it, so will you just _look_?"

He snatches at the cardboard sleeve, sending the rest of her crepe to the edge of the plate. He waves it practically under her nose. She gives him a withering look as she dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

"Kaaaattttee." He's officially whining now. She thinks about making him pay for it, but she's curious, truth be told.

She holds out a silent hand, noticing his is shaking a bit as she hands it over. She opens the sleeve a fraction of an inch and peers inside. "Halifax?" She bends the stiff cardboard in half, spreading it flat on her lap. She looks at him. "In Canada?"

"Yes, Canada is where they're currently keeping Halifax." His knee bounces harder than ever. His fingers dance over the comforter. "It's a great little city . . . have you . . ." He looks up, alarmed all of a sudden. "Maybe you've been?"

She shakes her head. "They're not . . . " She pulls out the oblongs inside. She turns them over and over in her hands. "They're not real plane tickets."

"No," he says quickly. "I wouldn't . . . I mean I _would,_ because I love surprises. But I think you probably don't, do you? No, so I wouldn't just . . . not without asking." He looks up at her, his brow furrowed like he knows he's babbling and he wishes she's help him stop. "But can we?"

"Go to Halifax," she says flatly, just so they're absolutely clear. "This weekend?"

"This weekend." He reaches for her hand. "You have it off. And the weather's going to suck here. And it's going to be seventy . . . well, twenty-one . . . there, and sunny and perfect and . . ." He trails off. More because he's out of air than anything else. But he meets her eyes and something change. "And I want to take you out."

It's like he's thrown a switch with the words. The excited little boy is gone, and all that's left is the man who doesn't take no for an answer. The man who's deftly setting aside the breakfast tray and peeling the sheets down her body.

"Say yes, Kate." He curls his arm around her waist and pulls her on top of him. He buries his hands in her hair and holds her close with delicate kisses. "Say yes."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's right, of course. She hates that. She hates the fact that he can hear her stupid keys. She hates that he _knows_ how nervous she is. She hates that she's sucking the fun out of this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Uh. It's a four-shot (sorry, I said two, but it got long) set sometime between "Cloudy with a Chance of Murder" (5 x 02) and "Secret's Safe With Me" (5 x 03). I'll be posting the remaining chapters today, so it'll be complete no later than Monday morning.

 

Morbidezza.

Mor`bi`dez´za

n. 1. (Fine Arts) Delicacy or softness in the representation of flesh.

2\. (Mus.) A term used as a direction in execution, signifying, with extreme delicacy.

 

She does. She says yes. She's nerves all week. She blurts out things too loudly when anyone asks her anything, weekend related or not. She's . . . the opposite of whatever playing it cool is, and he's the one to calm her. He smooths things over.

It's weird. Ryan and Esposito know something is up. _Everyone_ knows something is up, because she's apparently _really_ bad at this, but he steps in. He's a blank wall, or he pretends to play along.

_What_ could _Detective Beckett be up to?_

He asks it with wide eyes. He leads the charge down wild paths, only to pull the rug out from under them. He rolls with it, perfectly in character, and all of a sudden the week is over.

Her desk is clear, her inbox is empty, and her nerves are worse than ever. She rattles her keys in her hand on the way down from the fourth floor. It's her parting humiliation, a fiercely whispered argument at the elevator about leaving together.

_We leave together all the time, Beckett._ Not _leaving together would look weird. Will you just press the damned button?_

He's right, of course. She hates that. She hates the fact that he can hear her stupid keys. She hates that he _knows_ how nervous she is. She hates that she's sucking the fun out of this.

He makes it ok, though. He kisses her around the corner. He makes an exaggerated check in both directions first. He peers into a nearby trash can and pretends to look underneath a car half papered with parking tickets and take-out flyers. He makes her laugh and kisses her.

"The car will swing by the loft first." He closes his hand around hers, silencing the keys at last. "Should be at your place by seven."

"You're not . . ." She breaks off. Every version of the next few hours she's envisioned feature him skulking around the edges. Getting in the way and driving her crazy. Every single one, and now it's nothing but blank.

"You haven't packed." The emphatic straight line of his mouth— _definitely_ not a smile—says he's absolutely sure of himself. Of her. She thinks about denying it, just to spite him, but he's going on already. "And I'm guessing that you _mistakenly_ believe that I would not be a big help."

"You're a big _something_ , Castle."

His mouth opens and snaps shut. She's on fire from head to toe, and even he can't add much more to the innuendo than an eyebrow.

He lets her fingers go, one at a time. "See you around seven?"

"Seven," she says. It sounds grim. It feels grim when she nods and turns on her heel. She turns back. She makes herself and grits her teeth she she sees the uneasy set of his shoulders.

"Castle," she calls after him. It's faint. Drowned out by traffic, but he turns right away. "I'm excited."

That's grim, too. Her voice sounds flat. She sounds the farthest thing from excited, but he lights up, entirely. He smiles wide enough for both of them. For the whole city block.

"Me, too." He stumbles backwards a few steps, wrenching around when he hip checks a newspaper box. He turns to watch where he's going, but he can't resist calling over his shoulder again. "Me, too. Seven o'clock."

 

There's a lonely pile of socks in the bottom of her bag. That's it. Even her toiletries are in half-in, half-out disarray. It's two nights. A day and a half, but she's obsessing. Hair products and make up and things she hasn't touched in months, but she's suddenly sure she'll need every single one of them.

It's all a distraction anyway. The sorted heaps of _too casual_ and _trying too hard_ and _why do I even_ have _this anymore?_ It's stalling, plain and simple.

He's taking her _out._ Candles and cufflinks and fancy hair and she has _nothing_ to wear _._ Absolutely nothing. She thinks about making a 911 call to Lanie, but it's too late for that. Even in the fantasy world where Lanie would help first and ask for explanations later, there's no time, and she has _nothing._

There's a knock on the door and the world stops turning. It takes on the shape of a nightmare and she half expects to find herself naked on the curb next to an idling town car. She lurches for her watch. For her phone. It's not quite six, and there's only one person in the world who'd be on her doorstep right now.

"Castle!" She throws the door open and yanks him inside in one motion. "What are you . . . "

"I told you I was excited. I was going to wait. And I can still wait. This can. Wait, I mean, if you want to. It can wait, you don't have to . . . but I thought it might . . ." He talks right over her. Rapid-fire not-quite-sentences, and his hands are behind his back. The cool facade he's managed the whole week is all over cracks. He trails off. Swallows hard and one hand shoots out toward her. It stops just shy of hitting her ribs. "Here. This is for you."

It's a jewelry box. Long, slim, and tell-tale pale blue with a silver–white ribbon. She does't say anything. She doesn't reach for it. She just stares right through it. Right through his hand and down to the floor.

"You're panicking," he says. "And I thought . . ." He slaps his other hand over the box. He fumbles it to his chest, clumsily working the box into the inside pocket of his jacket. Looking like he wishes he could make it disappear altogether. "I'll go. Forget I was here."

He reaches for the door, but she catches his wrist. A brief, white-knuckled grip, then she drops it. "You're not?" She's five steps behind the conversation, at least, but he catches on.

"Panicking?" He shakes his head. Gives her the same smile that lit up the whole city block. "No. Got that out of my system before I asked. But you said yes. So I'm good now."

"I don't have anything . . ." She stops herself. It's a strange feeling. He's the one she wants to tell. The only one she can even _picture_ telling what's tying her in knots, but that's crazy when it's _him._ It's him and them and _this_ tying her in knots, and who is there to talk her off the ledge? She slumps against the door frame. Knocks her head against the wood. "I'm being ridiculous."

He opens his mouth to ask something. _Why?_ Maybe that's it. She's wondering that herself, but there's too much dammed up behind that particular question, and he seems to know. He reaches into his jacket again. He slips enough of the box out so that the blue peeps out from behind his lapel.

"Can I give this to you?" He ducks into her line of sight. "It's not scary." She gives him a hard look. Pride and annoyance at the very _idea_ eating up a little of the panic. "Not . . . I mean I went through like five things that were _way_ too much. Way scary when I thought about it. And this . . . it's not. I promise." He holds it out to her just a little. "And it might help. With the packing."

She takes it from him. She fights down the urge to turn her back and curve her shoulders in. She breathes a faint _thank you._ He smiles and nods to the box, shifting on his feet, though he's eager, rather than anxious.

She smiles back. She tugs the ribbon with steady fingers. It's not scary. She lifts the lid. "Castle, it's . . ."

She raises her eyes. She feels her smile widen to rival his. Excitement courses through her. The panic and worry and everything else falls away as she slips her finger under the delicate arc of figure-eight links. The simple beauty of sliver reaching out toward the single, slightly larger version of themselves—infinity with a tiny sweep of tiny stones along one inside curve, winking purple and fiery red and deep blue depending on how the light hits them.

She pictures it. The heel of her hand resting on her chest and her fingers fluttering, tracing the sweep of stones. She imagines the feel of cool metal on her skin. Just the right weight resting against her collar bones. She pictures herself on his arm and something made right between them. "It's . . . "

" . . . ok?" he finishes at last, worried but not worried.

"Ok." She kisses him hard. "Just right." She folds his palm around the box. "Hold this. I have to pack."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Two remaining chapters going up later today.
> 
>  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It isn't her, but this isn't New York. It's another world entirely. It's dark and quiet and winding and she's sleepy with tiny airline bottles of wine and the weight of secrets she doesn't have to keep. She's a lazy flutter of excitement as she turns her head and plants a kiss on whatever skin happens to be nearby."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Four-shot set sometime between "Cloudy with a Chance of Murder" (5 x 02) and "Secret's Safe With Me" (5 x 03)
> 
>  

 

Morbidezza.

Mor`bi`dez´za

n. 1. (Fine Arts) Delicacy or softness in the representation of flesh.

2\. (Mus.) A term used as a direction in execution, signifying, with extreme delicacy.

* * *

 

 

She drapes herself against him in the back of the car. She feels his spine straighten with surprise. It's dark and the driver isn't just discreet, he's _Canadian._ But he swiftly winds his arms around her, one sliding across her waist and the other circling her shoulders. He pulls her close like he's afraid she'd change her mind. That she'll remember this isn't her.

It _isn't_ her, but this isn't New York. It's another world entirely. It's dark and quiet and winding and she's sleepy with tiny airline bottles of wine and the weight of secrets she doesn't have to keep. She's a lazy flutter of excitement as she turns her head and plants a kiss on whatever skin happens to be nearby.

"I love Halifax," she murmurs.

His breath rumbles in her ear. A low, soft laugh. "It's pitch black. You haven't seen Halifax."

"Still." She reaches her fingers out to touch the window. The road is smooth and the scenery flicks from thick, leafy summer trees to silvered water.

He ducks to rest his cheek against hers. To see what she sees. "Still."

 

* * *

 

She's up before him. Their suite hugs the corner of the hotel's top floor. It's modest, with French doors setting the bed and bathroom off from a neat, functional sitting area.

She puts on coffee in the tiny kitchenette and curls up by the window in the wingback chair, doing nothing. Her phone is face down somewhere and there's a book splayed open over the armrest, left there in favor of watching the world below.

She tips her forehead to the window and smiles down at couples and strollers and dogs running out their leashes. The foot traffic thickens as the sun rises higher and the wisps of cloud burn off for good. There's a crowd gathering at the corner diagonal from her window. She kneels up to better see the bright dresses and bouquets tipping toward the ground like afterthoughts as pretty young women reach up to straighten boutonnières and bow ties.

"Wedding pictures." He wraps her hand around a warm mug and perches behind her on the arm of the chair. "Public gardens." He pushes the sheer drapery to the side and taps the glass. "Pretty, but they'll be crowded on a day like today." He stoops to nudge her chin toward the opposite corner. "We have to visit Robbie Burns." He gestures down toward a statue she can barely make out at the entrance to what looks like a different kind of park.

"Have to." She smiles into her coffee. He's warm and sleep rumpled and thrumming with excitement. It's all she can do not to wrap herself around him. She loves this. She loves being away from everything and everyone. She loves _him,_ and the words almost tumble out.

Almost, but he's blushing. Backtracking. "I mean . . . I can . . . we can do whatever you want. There's the citadel. And the harbor is . . . there's a museum . . ."

A cloud flits over the sun and passes. Her stomach flutters and that passes, too. She sits up tall and tips her head back, waiting for him to kiss her. He does, his words trailing off as she takes the mug from his hands and sets her own aside.

"Robbie Burns," she says as their lips part, then meet again. "Have to. The best-laid schemes . . ."

 

* * *

 

The day seems to last forever.

They visit Robbie. They eat pastries on a nearby bench, because they smell divine and it doesn't matter that they've just stuffed themselves at breakfast. He poses with his arms folded at the base of the statue. She snaps a picture with her phone, then hands it off on a whim to a teenager walking a scruffy dog. She rushes to Castle's side and shoves her hand in his back pocket, laughing up at the scandalized look on his face.

The kid shakes his head and hands the phone back. It's perfect. Him scowling, his face mirroring Burns exactly, and her smiling wide. She thinks about picture frames. Something new on a shelf for him to fuss with. For her to scowl and straighten and remember. It's them and not them at all. It's perfect.

The gardens are crowded, but the mystery of it draws her. Stone walls and iron gates and greenery rising high. They weave in and out of wedding parties and dance to nothing in the empty bandshell. They dart across a foot bridge, calling out congratulations to a serious-looking groom in white tie and tails while his bride stands by, laughing and scooping tulle over her arm as the photographer tries to get him to smile.

They spill out the gates at the far end and turn toward the water. They take the long way around the base of the citadel, winding lazily higher and higher. It's steep enough in places that the sweat pools in the small of her back. She pulls him into the cool shadows of a narrow hallway. They drop to a bench in front of a broad board crowded with text and pencil drawings of the older parts of the fort.

"Hideout." He squints from one end of the corridor to the other. "Good thinking." He glides a palm upward from her knee and leans in, pressing her back to the wall. She shivers at the contrast between the chill of the stone and the warm sun gathered on her skin. She shivers at the unexpected drift of his fingers over bare skin as he hikes up the hem of her shirt.

"Castle!" She bats half-heartedly at his hands. "We're in public."

"Mmmm. No." He nips at her earlobe. "We're in a secluded hallway sheltering eighteenth century timbers from the ruins of the first two citadels. A _very_ secluded hallway that very polite Canadians are unlikely to enter if they hear strange noises."

" _Strange_ noises?" She tugs at his hair. It makes him yelp, but he stands his ground.

"Unearthly." He captures her fingers. "Ethereal." He slides his mouth down her throat. "Dirty."

"You're lecturing me on historical timbers. This is you going for dirty, Castle?"

She pushes back from him. She scoots to the edge of the bench and half rises, but he gives chase. He circles her waist with one arm and scoops the other under her knees, pulling her on to his lap.

"Hmmmmm." He buzzes his lips against the hollow of her shoulder. "Scottish poetry about displaced rodents seemed to get your motor running this morning, Beckett. I like my chances."

"Morning," she says faintly. There's a part of her that remembers they should be _doing_ things. That they only have today and hardly any of tomorrow. That part tugs at his wrist and turns his watch up so she can see. "It's still morning. How can it not even be noon?"

"It's not?" His mouth pulls away from her skin with a wet pop. He blinks down at the dial. "It's not. Are you . . . you're not bored?"

"Not bored." She settles closer against him, feeling equal parts ridiculous and utterly content, sprawled together with him like this. She shivers and presses herself into the warmth of his skin. "Not bored at all."

 

* * *

 

It goes on. The light lasts and it feels like time is stretching out just for them.

They perch on thick chains strung between wooden pilings and sip coffee as a breeze ruffles up off the water. They stand in the shade of a striped awning and watch glass blowers at work, close enough to feel the blast of the furnace toast their skin. She talks him out of crystal curling rock.

"What would you _do_ with it?"

"Poker game's been getting stale." He runs a finger over the handle and steps aside to let the sun hit it. She has to admit it's beautiful. "Curling would shake things up. Patterson will whine about age discrimination . . ."

She tugs him away, though, and he comes willingly. They stumble into a dark, cool bar. They sip wine and grate fresh horseradish on to oysters. They swivel on their barstools to watch the band bicker as they make their way through a set list.

"Why isn't _everyone_ here?" She spins to face him, happy and a little sun drunk and wondering how the place can be so empty.

"Don't actually open 'til dinner." The bartender gives them a wink and tops off their glasses.

Even Castle blushes at that. "But the door . . ." He gestures, laughing and trying to apologize. "We didn't mean to be . . . American."

The bartender waves it off. "Here anyway, aren't I?" He nods to the band. "And you've got them on company behavior."

They finish up quickly though. They drain their glasses and heap an enormous tip on the bar. Castle stuffs another fistful of bills into the oversized snifter on the edge of the piano as they make their way out.

They stroll with linked fingers, their hands swinging between them. They trade stories of the strangest places they've been for the oddest reasons. They drift into shops and peer through windows.

They're closer to the hotel than she'd realized. They turn a corner and she sees golden light spilling over the park. She sees the outline of Robbie Burns in shadow. She stops abruptly. It pulls him around. She looks at her watch and his watch, suddenly nervous.

It's earlier than it should be. She feels like they've been all over creation and the sun is still high, but she's worried. "Are we late?"

"For?" He raises his eyebrows. He leans back to throw her off balance and tugs her closer. He catches her around the waist and glances up and down the street like he's looking for convenient shadows.

_"Out,"_ she says, slapping a palm to his chest. It's loud. The word and the sound and he plays it up. She ignores him. She barrels on, caught up in how odd and toi-good-to-be-true everything feels. "We're going out, aren't we?"

He nods, unconcerned. "Definitely going out." Mostly unconcerned. There's the slightest waver to his voice. Something he's not telling her. "But we're not late." He steps in to kiss her. "Promise, we're not."

* * *

 

She tumbles right on to the bed, arms stretched high, shoes and all. The windows are open wide and the breeze is heavenly. Her cheeks are warm and she feels her eyes closing.

"I'll shower first?"

The mattress dips. She startles. Inhales sharply and can't focus right away.

"I wasn't asleep!" She tries to push herself up, but nothing on her body feels like it's where it's supposed to be.

He laughs and leans down to kiss her, swiping his thumb at the corner of her mouth. "Of course you weren't."

"Wasn't." She shies away from his thumb, grimacing when her cheek presses into a suspicious wet spot on the pillow. She curls on to her side tugging the airy comforter up over her knees. "You can shower first, though."

"Generous." He laughs into her hair. She feels the mattress rise, relieved of his weight. She's drifting already.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Last chapter up later tonight. Sorry, this is rather a bunch of nothing other than my love for the pretty people and Halifax.
> 
>  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She wakes on her own, slow and dreamlike, though there's a small voice worrying that the light is low and her limbs are the kind of leaden that comes with long, deep sleep. She reaches out a clumsy hand and finds his, resting nearby."  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Four-shot set sometime between "Cloudy with a Chance of Murder" (5 x 02) and "Secret's Safe With Me" (5 x 03). Complete now.

 

 

Morbidezza.

Mor`bi`dez´za

n. 1. (Fine Arts) Delicacy or softness in the representation of flesh.

2\. (Mus.) A term used as a direction in execution, signifying, with extreme delicacy.

* * *

 

 

She wakes on her own, slow and dreamlike, though there's a small voice worrying that the light is low and her limbs are the kind of leaden that comes with long, deep sleep. She reaches out a clumsy hand and finds his, resting nearby.

"You're up." He closes the book in his lap and leans on an elbow to smile down at her.

Her fingers open and close around something she can't make make sense of. Stiff, flapping fabric. His sleeve, the wide cuff gaping. "Cufflinks." She groans and rolls on to her face. "You're dressed," she mumbles into the pillow.

"Mostly. Cufflinks in a bit."

He runs a palm down her back. It draws the worry trying to gather in her up and out. She cracks open one eye and works at a frown.

"You should have woken me." She fumbles at his wrist, but he hasn't put his watch back on yet. Her own is somewhere far away, trapped beneath her heavy body. "It's . . . late?"

"There's no late." He studies her and she sees it again. A slight waver that steadies. He makes up his mind. "We're kind of . . ." His eyes dart away and back. The words rush out. "I kind of asked them not to take any other reservations."

"Castle!" She's sitting bolt upright all of a sudden. Her head swims a little. "You can't just . . . do that."

It comes out breathy. Like she's scandalized by some . . . finger bowl or fish fork violation. Whatever people who walk in his world are scandalized by.

"Apparently I can." He's trying not to laugh, but he's worried, too. He's a little worried. "It's not . . . " He fiddles with his cuffs. With the fancy pen and leather-bound journal resting against his thigh. "It's not a big place anyway. And it's not even . . ." He sighs. His eyes drift to the window. To the curtains fluttering lazily in the breeze. "It's not a page six thing. I'm not worried about that. I just . . . we only have tonight and I wanted us to have the day and not have to . . . it's not a big deal."

He looks at her, pleading a little. She thinks of the pale blue box and the necklace that's just right. She thinks of the week that flew by and this perfect, _perfect_ day. She leans over. She clambers up on her knees and kisses him. She slides her fingers into his hair and loves the clean scent of him. She hovers close enough that his eyes slip shut. It settles him. It settles them both.

"So there's no late?"

"No late," he repeats, a little dazed by the kiss and her sudden, fizzing excitement.

"Good." She drags her body over his, dropping her feet over the far side of the bed. She strikes a pose, drawing her hand up and down her own body. Preening and giving him a wicked look. "This takes a while."

* * *

 

 

She half expects him to hover. She hurries through the business of showering with one eye on the curtain, bracing for the ring of metal on metal as he whisks it open. But the world outside the bathroom door is quiet.

He harasses her as she comes and goes, of course. He grabs for her towel when she darts past empty handed at first, then trying not to trip over the armful of garment bag. He laughs at her hair, half up and half down as she dashes for the wardrobe again, torn between stockings and no stockings. He leers and calls out offers of help as she shuts the door on him again and again.

He leaves her be, though. There's ink on his fingers and she catches him scrawling in the journal that's new to her. She catches him with his collar snapped up, grumbling at his tie somewhere between trips six and seven from bathroom to suitcase and back again. Somewhere along the way, he folds his cuffs back and tips a few pairs of cufflinks out on to the dresser. He asks which ones she likes and she points blindly, too preoccupied to really focus. And then, all of a sudden, his jacket is draped on the back of the chair, and he's ready when she is.

Ready when she is, but that's easier said than done. She keeps pulling in three directions at once. She drops the curling iron and goes to work on one dramatic eye. She hops around with one shoe on and one off, because she didn't bring both on her last trip, and she has to ask him to toss it to her. The idea of taking the other off is wrong somehow. She's completely scattered. Completely unmethodical and everything takes forever.

Except not quite forever enough. She tosses her head back, easing a pin here and there free to let a few wisps of hair fall forward to frame her face. She reaches for tweezers and her lip pencil and this and that, but she pushes them all away. It's fine. Her makeup is fine. Her hair is fine and there's nothing left but the garment bag behind her.

She slips the hotel robe from her shoulders and hangs it on a free hook. She takes a breath and unzips the bag, a violent tug that's deafening for no good reason. She brushes the stiff material of the bag back behind the hanger. The dress falls softly, the fabric soft, dark and beautiful even in the harsh bathroom light.

She reaches for it, but her hand falls away. She has a moment of panic. Her chest is tight and she sees him, speechless in the bullpen, heat flaring in his eyes and dying away the same instant. Completely dying away as she curls her fingers around another man's elbow and turns from him. Every awful moment in those weeks crowds around her. They roar in her ears and she's paralyzed. She can't wear this. She doesn't know what she was thinking, packing _this_ of all things, but she can't possibly wear it.

She's about to break. She's one breath from locking the door and telling him she can't go out. She can't possibly leave this very bathroom, maybe ever again, so he's going to have to arrange something with the management. She's one breath from that when her gaze falls on the pale blue box. The lid is bumped half off. She's been sneaking peeks at it all the while. All day since she crept out of bed. Perfect silver links against white satin.

Her fingers settle beside it, and she's instantly calm. It's right. She's as sure then as in that moment with him, crowded together in her hallway.

_Can I give this to you? It's not scary._

And it's not. It's this dress he meant it for. She's absolutely sure. Her heart still aches from those weeks, and his must, too, but this is forgiveness and apology both. It's big things and little they've weathered. They will weather. It's right. This place and this moment. She slides the dress from the hanger. She reaches back for the zipper—unthinking—and winces when the scar pulls unpleasantly.

The scar.

She breathes through it. She tugs the zipper high and reaches for her makeup bag. For the army of tiny bottles she has for this, but her her hand falls away. She remembers leaning in to the cloudy locker room mirror, her hands tacky with color a shade too dark and another a shade too light. Thick and clumsy with all of it.

She chafes her fingertips together now and lets them drop to her side. She stands straight with her shoulders back and suddenly it doesn't loom so large. Suddenly this is right, too. She dusts a little powder down her throat and over her collar bones and it all but disappears in every way that matters.

She slips her fingers between silver and white satin and loves the weight of the links spanning her palm as she lifts it free. She loves the color that fans out over her skin. She opens the door and steps into the bedroom.

She calls his name, but he's already turning. Fumbling the cufflink in his hand when he sees her. Going quiet and absolutely still, then lighting up as his eyes sweep over her, head to toe.

"Kate, you look . . ." He drops the cufflink. A loud clatter of metal on wood. He comes for her, but she laughs, turning her back on him. "You look . . . " His hands are warm on her shoulders, trailing over her hips.

"I look . . ." She grabs his wrist—an effort of will—and slips the necklace between his fingers. "Not quite dressed."

"Not quite." His breath is warm as he leans forward. Her shoulder blades meet the crisp fabric of his shirt and the silver raises goose bumps as he trails it over her skin. He nudges a wisp of hair from her neck with his nose and fastens the clasp. "But now . . ."

He turns her toward him. He traces the delicate curve of the chain with his thumbs. He's speechless.

"Now," she says quietly. She reaches past him for the abandoned cufflink. She catches him by the wrist and settles his cuff, slipping the cool metal through the fabric and tugging the hinge. She smoothes a hand down the dark, rich line of his tie. She steps into his body, one hand on his shoulder, the other in his. She kisses him. "Just right."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And DONE. Thank you for taking this unapologetically SWEET little journey with me. If you go to Halifax, find the pirate in the evening by the Robbie Burns statute. Take the haunted hike. Drink with the pirate.
> 
>  

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Second chapter is a little more than halfway done. Up in the next couple of days. Thanks for reading.


End file.
